


Like A Horse To Water

by leonidaslion



Series: Horse To Water [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can lead a Winchester to redemption, but can you make him accept it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Horse To Water

Sam keeps waiting for Castiel to show up and Castiel keeps not obliging, which Dean thinks is pretty unfair, considering the fact that Sam’s the pious one. The kid's been shadowing Dean's every move ever since Dean told him what happened in the barn: squinting too hard at any dark-haired suits they happen across and casting slanting looks at churches. When they're alone, his eyes are locked on Dean, unflinching and intent. It's as if he's worried that if he looks away for even a second, he’ll miss the big reveal.

If you ask Dean, Sam deserves a little show and tell after all those years of faith. He deserves … well, when you come right down to it, he deserves a shot at redemption more than Dean does. Dean tried to explain as much to Mr. Personality, but Castiel just looked at him in that strange, sad way—like Dean was talking about bashing in puppies’ heads with a hammer—and didn’t say anything.

On second thought, maybe Dean doesn’t actually want Sam meeting the guy. Castiel fits the bill power-wise, but he’s a little lacking in the brains department for an Angel of the Lord, and Sam, egghead that he is, would probably be disappointed by that. Hell, the feathery asshole was dumb enough to pull Dean’s nuts out of the fire _(thank fucking God he doesn’t remember much of_ that _)_ , when anyone could’ve told him that there were better options on the menu.

Not that Dean’s complaining. Much. He just wants to know what the fuck is going on. All he got from Castiel during their one and only meeting was, ‘we need to talk’ and ‘God has a plan’ and ‘keep your head down’. As if Dean were thinking about taking out a full-page ad in the Times inviting Lilith and her pals to a welcome-back barbeque. _He_ isn’t the one a few feathers short of a pillow, and he sure as fuck isn’t the one who said ‘we will speak again soon’ before disappearing for almost three full weeks.

Having to wait around on someone else’s clock is driving Dean nuts, especially when he doesn’t know what kind of schedule _(weeks, months,_ years _?)_ angels operate on. And as if the waiting weren’t already enough, there are … well, there are the dreams.

Dean calls them that, anyway, even though he suspects that ‘nightmares’ or ‘memories’ might actually be more accurate. Much as he’d like to deny it, he knows that he’s on the verge of piercing through that blissful void in his memory and finding out just how he spent those four missing months. Denial isn’t somewhere you can live when you keep waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with your heart pounding in your throat and shudders wracking your body.

These past few mornings, it’s been even worse. A whiff of Dean’s dreams lingers past waking—the harsh edge of a scream in his mouth, or the tingling threat of pain beneath his skin—and he catches himself staring into the mirror and searching for traces of black in his irises.

But none of that is important.

The _important_ thing is that Sam is working his way up to accusing Dean of lying about the whole ‘touched by an angel’ story.

Dean doesn’t want to get into some sort of pissing contest with his little brother when Sam is almost certainly lying to Dean about a whole truckload of things himself, but if Sam starts pushing at him then that’s exactly where they’re gonna end up. Dean’s already having trouble keeping his mouth shut on any number of points, actually: Sam’s little trips in the middle of the night, for one, and the sulfur scent permeating the laundry, for another.

Then there’s the fact that they seem to have picked up a stalker with long black hair and pouty lips and ‘haven’t seen Ruby since that night’ Dean’s _ass_.

Of course, if Dean brings any of that up, then Sam is going to expect some tit for his tat, and Dean is _so_ not talking about what he may or may not remember about Hell, or about the burn mark on his shoulder that refuses to go away, or about how fucking lost and useless and pathetic he feels. And he definitely isn’t talking about how frightened he is that any minute Castiel is gonna realize he swiped the wrong dude and stuff Dean right back down into the Pit.

So if Dean is a little jumpy when he wakes up and the blank-faced, suit-wearing bastard is leaning over him, then he thinks he can be forgiven for almost taking the guy’s head off with his knife. Okay, not ‘almost’. Castiel actually has hold of Dean’s wrist before his hand has even cleared the pillow, but it’s, y’know, the thought that counts. Or whatever.

“Shh,” Castiel murmurs, but he doesn't so much as flick his eyes over to the other bed where Sam is sleeping soundly.

 _Fuck that,_ Dean wants to say. He wants to shout and wake Sam up so that the three of them can have a little powwow, or maybe just so that he won't be alone in this anymore. He wants to say a lot of things, actually, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. He glares at the angel, still more furious than frightened, and tries to jerk his hand free.

“Turn over on your back,” Castiel tells him, still with those soulful, compassionate eyes, and while Dean rants at the fucker in his head, his body complies.

“You still don’t believe,” Castiel says. His brow furrows in sorrowful confusion. “I thought that if I gave you time you would understand, but you don’t.”

Okay, Dean’s officially frightened. He still isn’t sure what’s going on, but something about the way that Castiel is looking at him makes him remember that the last time the dude wanted to have a heart-to-heart, Dean ended up bleeding from his ears.

Sweating, he cuts his eyes over to Sam and wills his brother to wake up. Sam, perceptive psychic that he is, rubs at his nose in his sleep and rolls over. Dean stares at his brother’s broad shoulders and can’t help feeling a little betrayed.

“I’ll show you,” Castiel promises, drawing Dean’s attention back to the problem at hand. Releasing Dean’s wrist, the angel draws the sheet covering his body down with almost fussy deliberateness.

Although sweat slicks his skin, Dean shivers. He’s really starting to regret not taking that extra ten seconds to pull on a t-shirt before crawling into bed.

“Shh,” Castiel says again, and trails his fingers across the raised flesh of Dean’s shoulder.

Despite the command, a sound crawls out of Dean’s mouth anyway at that: a long, low moan. It feels like the bastard is touching his insides: stroking him and shedding this warm, agonizingly beautiful light everywhere. Leaning forward, Castiel presses his mouth to Dean’s and swallows the noise.

Dean would push the bastard off if he could move, but he can’t. He can only lie there and take it: Castiel’s hand on his shoulder, stroking; his lips against Dean’s, dry and slightly chapped; his tongue moving in slow, almost clinical thrusts. Castiel kisses with his eyes open, and Dean can’t figure out how to close his, and the whole thing is so fucking intimate that he thinks he would rather be having one of his nightmares.

“No,” Castiel murmurs. The word comes out muffled because he doesn’t bother disengaging their mouths to speak. “You aren’t listening.”

His hand moves across Dean’s chest and brushes his nipples. Dean’s hips roll at the shock that touch shoots through him and hey, looks like he can move after all—as long as it isn’t a voluntary decision, that is. Great. That gets him absofuckinglutely nowhere.

 _Sam,_ he thinks. _Goddamn it, Sammy, wake up._

Castiel stops kissing him again, and this time he does pull back: far enough that Dean can see that the angel’s mouth has turned down into a frown. “You don’t need him anymore.”

 _Are you reading my mind?_ Dean demands. His stomach twitches as Castiel runs his hand lower, one neatly trimmed nail catching in Dean’s navel.

“Yes,” the angel answers calmly, and then moves his hand down into Dean’s boxers and grasps his cock.

Dean’s breath stutters and his legs fall open wider.

 _Stop!_ he shouts silently, although he isn’t sure exactly what he means by it because his hips are twitching up, sliding his cock through Castiel’s sure fingers, and pleasure is unfolding languidly in his gut.

Oh fuck, he’s being molested by an angel and he’s getting off on it.

“That’s not what this is about,” Castiel tells him. Although his voice is stern, the hand that cups the side of Dean’s face is reverent. His eyes are tender. “You need to listen, Dean. This is the easiest way to get through to you.”

 _I don’t—oh fuck—listen with my dick,_ Dean thinks back, but the words sound dazed in his own head and Castiel ignores the protest.

“Listen,” he repeats in that relentless, gentle voice.

Dean can hear himself panting now: can hear the bedsprings creaking with the movement of his body. The warmth in his gut, terrifying in its intensity, has begun to spread through him. It doesn’t feel like arousal anymore, or like anything that Dean has ever felt.

It feels like light.

It feels the way he imagines his father’s smile might have, if John had ever looked at him with nothing but pride and love in his eyes. It feels the way his mother’s arms might have if she hadn’t burned, or the way that Cassie’s stomach might have if he had loved her more: if he had stayed long enough to round her slender form with new life. It feels like eyes on him, judging, and for the first time Dean isn’t coming up short.

He wants to turn away from the warmth and hide himself—the sensation is too new: too vast and unsettling—but Castiel tightens his grip and doesn’t let him. Dean’s chest aches and the handprint on his shoulder burns as he thrusts faster. Parts of him are coming unglued and slipping away in the face of the rising radiance—dark, ugly things, yeah, but they’re _his_ and this son of a bitch has no right to take them.

Castiel smiles at him in encouragement. “That’s it. Let go of your fear and you shall be redeemed.”

 _Sam,_ Dean begs, straining to unlock his voice. _Sammy, please._

Castiel’s eyebrows draw together: uncompromising. “He can’t help you,” the angel says. “Not anymore. You have to let him go.”

 _**No.** _

It’s less a thought and more a full-bodied reaction, but it does no good. That terrible light is still spreading inside of him, swelling and shoving his bruised and broken bits aside. It feels wonderful and horrible at the same time, and tears stream down his cheeks unheeded. Something is birthing inside of him—something a little like hope and a lot like salvation—but in order for the light to live, part of him has to die. The _best_ part of him—his weak, gutter heart that loves Sam before all others: before himself and God and Creation—that part has to die.

If this is redemption, then Dean doesn’t want it. He _doesn’t_.

His mouth drops open in a wordless denial as those insubstantial wings unfold from Castiel’s back again. This time, they aren’t black but blue: ice pure and blinding. Dean’s back arches uncontrollably as the light inside of him pulses brighter in response. He’s tipping over the edge into luminosity, and in a few more moments he’s going to lose everything that ever mattered to him.

The lightening that suddenly fills the room steals the air from Dean’s lungs. Golden, it burns the blue from Castiel’s wings and leaves them black and shriveled. A second, stronger strike tosses the angel to the floor and away from Dean.

Hauling in a deep breath, Dean rolls onto his side and curls in on himself. He clutches at the sheet with one hand while the dislodged, over-bright pieces of himself jar and jumble against each other.

“He said no,” Sam’s voice grates, low and cold.

Dean watches Castiel pick himself up from the floor and doesn’t know if he’s more terrified of the expression on the angel’s face _(although maybe ‘lack of expression’ would be more accurate)_ or of the fact that Sam just knocked an angel on its ass.

He’s beginning to suspect that he’s in over his head here.

“This man no longer belongs to you,” Castiel says, implacable. But Dean notices that he doesn’t make any move to come closer.

“I don’t think that’s your decision to make,” Sam answers. Dean hears the rustle of sheets and then Sam’s huge hand curls around his burnt shoulder. The light inside of him damps and cools and his insides fall back into their proper places. His heart falters for a moment and then limps gamely on in its old, familiar alignments.

“Sam,” he gasps out.

“Right here,” Sam tells him. His weight dips the mattress as he pulls Dean up and back a little, resting Dean’s shoulders in his lap. Slinging one arm across Dean’s chest, he finds Dean’s amulet with his hand and grips it tightly.

Then he raises his eyes to Castiel and announces, “He’s mine.”

Dean shuts his own eyes to block out the flicker of gold from above him. He has other things to worry about right now. Like the fact that he has somehow managed to end up as a turkey carcass caught between two ravenous junkyard dogs.

“His soul belongs to God.” Castiel’s voice brushes across Dean’s skin like a cool spring wind, pebbling his nipples and making him shudder.

“No,” Sam corrects. “His soul belongs to _him_ , and he belongs to me, which makes his soul mine. You don’t get to have him. You don’t get to _touch_ him.”

“Would you damn him again, Samuel? I offer him salvation and peace. Would you take that from him?”

Sam’s arm tightens around Dean’s chest. “Get out,” he growls.

“You cannot chain his light forever,” Castiel warns, but Dean senses the angel’s wondrous presence receding, and after a moment he hears the door to their room open and close. As soon as the door clicks shut again, his brother touches the side of his face with steady fingertips.

“Hey,” Sam murmurs. “Dean. Are you okay? Did it hurt you?” Releasing the amulet, he moves his hand across Dean’s chest in an echo of Castiel’s touch. Dean shivers.

“Look at me,” Sam insists. “Let me see your eyes.”

Dean doesn’t want to look—he would rather go back to sleep and forget that tonight ever happened—but he can’t refuse his brother. He opens his eyes and Sam’s irises look black in the darkness: no reflected sheen of gold to be seen. Sam peers down at him, assessing, and then relaxes. His hand comes to rest on Dean’s stomach, low enough that Dean shifts uneasily.

“You’re okay,” Sam breathes, and curls almost in half so that he can rest his forehead against Dean’s unmarked shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

Chilled, Dean stares past his brother’s hair at the ceiling. This whole fucked up mess seems a hell of a lot less amusing all of a sudden: not that it was much of a laugh riot to begin with. But it’s more difficult to turn everything into a joke when his brother’s fingers are stroking restlessly at the sensitive skin just above his boxers. It’s difficult to laugh when Sam’s breath is shuddering out against his skin, moist and warm. Difficult to smile when an angel just tried to jerk him—literally—into salvation, and Dean, stupid ass that he is, dragged his heels until his little brother woke up and put a stop to it.

 _Who are you, Sam?_ he thinks. Then, feeling small and lost: _who am I?_

“I’ll keep you safe,” Sam promises. “I’ll ask Ruby: she’ll know something we can do to ward it off.”

 _I thought you didn’t know where she was,_ Dean thinks of saying, but he doesn’t. After all, it isn’t like he didn’t already know that Sam was messing around with things he shouldn’t be touching.

So what if Sam’s eyes looked a little gold for a few seconds there? So what if his brother is acting a tad possessive now? He’s still _Sam_.

Better the devil you know than the angel you don’t, right?

“He’s gonna come back,” Dean mumbles. “He’ll come back for me.”

His tongue feels clumsy and overly large. There’s a funny taste in his mouth when he speaks: like incense.

He isn’t sure whether the words are meant in warning or as reassurance.

Sam’s fingers scrape through the thin trail of hair on Dean’s stomach before edging beneath the waistband of his boxers. Dean’s gut has gone cold and dark. His chest is hollowed out and full of shadows.

“You’re mine,” Sam repeats, and turns his head to the side. His lips brush the side of Dean’s neck in something that might be a kiss.

Probably not, though.

Probably.

Dean shuts his eyes as Sam’s teeth find his skin and bite down. He swallows as Sam’s tongue darts out, tracing along that small bit of flesh.

“Yours,” he rasps. Outside the window, there’s a distant, unreachable flutter of wings.

Sam’s lips curve into a smile and he kisses Dean again.


End file.
